The Singular Case of Jack the Ripper
by MyelleWhite
Summary: Once you see something, it can't be unseen. Holmes and Watson investigate the Ripper murders but what they find is more chilling than the murders themselves.
1. Chapter 1

**PLEASE READ: **This is a story that I wrote a while ago but it really needed some work. It was my first Sherlock Holmes story. It's still short, but I'm going to write it in a few chapters...I hope you enjoy the new and improved story!

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_Buck's Row, Whitechapel, London, August 31__st__, 1888_

The man looked around the alley, making absolute certain that no one was around. He lured his chosen "lady of the night" into a dark corner without raising her suspicion. Surely there were many men before him who had done the same, given her unfortunate occupation of prostitution.

_She won't have to work the streets of Whitechapel ever again, _he thought darkly. In a roundabout way, he figured he was doing her a grand favour of taking her off the streets-for good. He thought of himself as an angel in disguise-saving the women from their own brutal fate. He honestly couldn't see the point to their life if they had to sell themselves for a piece of stale bread. Yes, he would be their angel.

"What's your name, you?" she asked. Her voice had a thick accent. It made him sick to hear her talk. This would be easier if she were silent. You can't die..._peacefully..._while you're talking.

"Never you mind that. I don't see what use it could be to you anyways. Let the matter alone." he warned sternly.

"Perhaps you're right. Well, in any case, I'm Polly Nichols."

"I've never met a woman of your profession who talked so much."

_I'll be glad to get rid of you. _

He wrapped his hands round her neck. Thinking he was being playful, she tried to laugh but found her air cut off. Panicking now, Polly threw her hands up to try and ward the man off. She trashed about in his strong arms, desperately trying to be seen or heard. Her screams, however, were muffled by his jacket and her lack of air wasn't allowing her to be very loud anyway. Any hope she had of escaping seemed to be disappearing in front of her.

The man felt his heart pound against hers. He held her close, choking the life out of her. He saw the fear in her eyes and it made him feel powerful. He felt unstoppable and invincible while holding this insignificant human. She was unimportant. This _Polly Nichols _wouldn't be remembered a week from now.

The killer knew the woman was dead when her body fell limp into his arms. He laid her on the ground next to the wall in the unit part of the street. Looking over her, he felt the sensation that his work was not complete. Suddenly, it was not enough to only kill her. He had to cut her-take her beyond recognition. He had to mutilate her.

He knelt beside his victim and slit her throat, thus beginning his night's work. He smiled knowing that he would soon be the most feared man in London.

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More to come! If you've read the story before, tell me how it's been improved and if it hasn't, let me know that as well. Please read my other story called "Still Watching You"

-Myelle


	2. Chapter 2

The first time I ever heard of "Jack the Ripper," I had been in our rooms in Baker Street. Little had I known that this case would lead to others which would eventually lead to the near death of the both of us. I was persuaded-or rather, ordered- by Holmes to let the case alone-to never publish it. I obeyed his wishes as it had been a case which I had never particularly wanted to remember anyways. Now, ten years later to the day, we sit together in my consulting room. Holmes said "I believe it's time the public knew, Watson." Of course, I knew what he was talking about immediately and when he left, I sat down to write my account of the singular events of the fearsome Jack the Ripper.

_221b Baker Street, London September 1__st__, 1888_

In our shared rooms in Baker Street, there was not much to do in the morning but eat breakfast and read the paper while waiting for Holmes to awaken. On this morning, however, he must have not even gone to bed because he was busily scratching on his Stradivarius as I came into the sitting room.

I picked up the paper before pouring tea, looking for any interesting news.

"Holmes, read this." I instructed when I had found something. The detective known famously as none other than Sherlock Holmes gave me a passing wave of the hand. Annoyed I said, "Now."

He took the paper from me and read the lines which were about to catapult us into the strangest case of our lives. Of course, the detective's emotionless facade never faltered.

"Poor woman. Five teeth missing pulled out by the murderer...laceration upon the neck from ear to ear...further cuts on the tongue...bruises on the face and neck..."

"Surely you will assist the police, Holmes. If I read correctly, our friend Lestrade has been offered the case to work alongside Inspector Abberline, also of Scotland Yard. I don't know about Abberline, but Lestrade could probably use your help."

"I don't know, Watson. I think I'd better stay clear of this one"

"Really? But how is it possible you don't want to stop this_ monster_?"

"You hear me incorrectly, my dear Watson, for I never said I didn't want to stop him. I recall saying that I don't know and that I think I should stay away from..."

"Yes, I heard you perfectly." I interrupted. "So you're not going to even make a hypothesis?"

"No."

"Holmes-"

He looked at me sternly and I knew that he had an acceptable reason, though it would remain unsaid for the time being.

It wasn't until our afternoon tea that Holmes and I talked again. Mrs. Hudson made a passing comment that Holmes must be "up to something" because of his prolonged silence. Shaking her head, she left me alone with him...a position I wasn't sure I wanted to be in with him pacing the floor continually.

The old landlady was absolutely correct. Holmes was up to something-and not just anything. Holmes was pondering the case I had recommended he take earlier.

"I've got a particularly bad feeling about it, Watson. Something isn't right."

"Well how can it be right when a woman is butchered in such a method?"

Holmes didn't answer but I never expected him to. He sunk his head upon his chest and began eagerly pacing the room.

As per usual, my friend was right. There was indeed something very wrong with this case...with this man who killed in cold blood.

The rest for the day was spent watching him pace up and down over the floor. I-I admit-was too scared to talk to him. I suppose that I was worried I'd disturb his thoughts. The man was strange but when he got thinking, he could do wonders. It was nearing dinner before he finally spoke again.

"I'll need to examine the crime scene."

My interest sparked with his words but the feeling of unease shadowed my excitement. He instructed me to eat quickly so we could head out within the hour.

"My dear Holmes, aren't you going to have anything to eat before we go? You'll grow tired and you'll wear yourself out if you continue this unhealthy behaviour."

"Your concern flatters me, Watson but digestion at a time like now would only use energy which can be stored more appropriately for my brain."

"You confuse me, old man but if you are solely waiting on me then I will pass dinner and we'll leave immediately. Besides, by the time we get there it will be almost too dark to see. Whitechapel, I'm afraid, isn't a very friendly place after nightfall."

"Much obliged."

Holmes and I grabbed our coats then walked to the street and caught a hansom cab to Buck's Row where the murder took place. There was no doubt that the body had since been removed and the police had walked over everything, but there were most likely still a few small clues that they had missed out on.

"The game is afoot!"

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Tell me what you think...not much was added to this chapter from the previously written part of the story but there are a few things...

Anyways, please check out my other written works-some for FRINGE some for SHERLOCK HOLMES...what can I say? I like crime...haha.

More to come!

-Myelle


	3. Chapter 3

DEAR READERS: Okay, so this chapter contained the conclusion where Holmes and Watson are attacked, etc...well...I changed it. This chapter will be similar, only there will be a few more murders after this...

Yes, I'm expanding the story...by a lot. If you have any suggestions, they are welcome.

So, in this chapter there will be a meeting between the pair and Jack himself...

-Myelle.

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Holmes had examined the gruesome scene over and over, calculating distances, mumbling observations, and reviewing his thoughts. I admit, I hardly knew what he was saying but I assumed it was important so I strained to hear him-with little luck.

Night had since wrapped us in her darkness and the eerie glow of the lantern which I held was barely enough to fight the black abyss which was Buck's Row. _Haunting. _That was a good word to describe it though I believe there is no word quite dark enough to describe our experience in full.

"I've reached a dead end. Nothing is adding up!" the detective explained, clearly over exerted and frustrated. "I know that she was murdered here, opposed to having been murdered somewhere else, then moved here. That is all! If I had come earlier and listened to you, this would be much easier. Now, to my sincere disappointment, I'm afraid we will have to wait for the next murder to find any clues."

Outraged at the situation, I asked a question I wasn't sure I wanted the answer to. "You know he will strike again?"

"Undoubtedly." He said as a matter-of-fact.

"Holmes, how do you talk about the murder with such calm? Surely if you had a wife or a daughter you would be horrified."

"Of course, Watson but Miss Polly Nichols deserves to have her killer found and I can't do that with a sense of dread hanging over me. If anyone I knew was killed by this...monster then I'm sure I might be saddened but I would have to treat it as a case-nothing more."

I have to admit, I wasn't shocked at his confession but it still seemed impossible to show no emotion for the victim.

"Well, as a person should, I can't help but feel sorry for the poor woman. I know her husband and children were left by her years ago but she still must be dearly missed."

"You have a great heart, Watson, but sometimes you just have to follow your brain."

"Yes, Holmes, _sometimes. _Not _all _the time as you do. I admire your skills and brain-you know that- but I'll always wonder if you would actually be so unaffected if you knew the victim. I hope it never comes to that-for your sake."

"I would have to treat it as a puzzle to solve, nothing more. How would I solve a case if I were busy grieving? It only makes sense to be unresponsive."

I was outraged by his lack of empathy. I knew that there was a heart in the man somewhere, but he should really express his feelings more often or one day something would happen and he would break down.

I was about to propose we go home when a clear, low voice cut like a knife through our argument.

"Excuse me, gents but I couldn't help but overhear your little fight."

"Who are you?" Holmes asked. My heart pounded in my chest as the man inched forward. In all our cases, never had I felt so vulnerable than I had then. No one would hear our cries for help and surely it would come to us crying for help as I spotted a long knife glinting against the light of our lantern.

"My name is Jack. I wrote a little letter to your friends at Scotland Yard. They'll be callin' me 'Jack the Ripper' soon enough. You two are very predictable. I've heard a lot about the both of you. I figured you'd be in on this so I also thought that if I wanted to keep up my little charade, I'd have to rid London of you."

"So you awaited our coming, as you indeed knew we'd come, and you expect to kill us."

"It doesn't take your genius to know that, sir. I thought it was rather obvious."

I stayed silent during their banter of words. It was a chilling sight, watching this killer creep towards us like a hunter. Evidently, we were the prey. I reached for my revolver inside my pocket but found that I hadn't expected to need it so I had left it at Baker Street. A stupid error. I look back all these years later and think that the night's events would have gone a lot differently had I brought it. It's funny how the lives of two men and (four more women to come) depended on my old service revolver. I sincerely regret my decision to this day.

There was no way of protecting ourselves.

"You understand then, Mr. Holmes that if I let you leave tonight, I will surely be caught."

"Surely."

"I knew you'd bring the doctor along with you. I figured you'd want to document the case. Is that what you bring him along for? Well...that and to hold the lantern, I suppose. Come here, doctor. I've got another use for you."

My stomach dropped and my heart raced as the man raised his knife. It glinted once in the moonlight and then came swooping down sideways to my throat. He slashed the side of my neck easily, but not deeply enough to be fatal.

As I fell to the ground, I could hear Holmes' half human cry of anguish and surprise.

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Let me know what you think!

-Myelle


	4. Chapter 4

My apologies for the long wait-those of you who actually put me on author alert and story alert...

Might I ask one thing? Can you please review if you put on alert? It only takes a second...just one word is seriously enough. I really want to know what you think.

Enjoy my newest chapter!

-Myelle

(Holmes will be a little out of character in this chapter because he gets worried-I know! GASP!)

The man came at me again, aiming for my heart but Holmes hit his arm and the knife plunged instead into my side. I let out a cry of pain and let my head fall. My eyes closed but I remained conscious. I knew, however, that if I wasn't at a hospital in the next small while, I would die here on the cold cobblestone alley where the poor woman had died also.

He brought the knife once more down upon my side and I didn't cry out this time. I could barely feel it. My sense of direction and my self-awareness was seeping out of me along with the warm blood.

I heard Holmes' scream over the threats of the man.

"You killed him! Oh God, you've killed him!" It sounded as if he was sobbing, but that was ridiculous. Holmes never cried-nor did he show_ any_ emotion. My eyes felt like they were rolling backwards. I drifted but did not fall. I heard Holmes' own cry of pain and something in me told me I didn't deserve to remain awake-or alive. Something in me told me to die and I dropped into blackness.

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I opened my eyes two days later at the London Hospital. I had barely moved my head before I heard Holmes' voice. He sat at my bedside, watching me intently. I knew it-he had the same look in his eyes as he did when he had a case. That far away, of excitement and joy, yet it was clouded by his emotionless facade.

"Forgive me, Watson."

"What-oh." I said as I remembered the events of the attack. I failed to see how any of it was his fault. If anything, it was mine for forgetting or neglecting to think about bringing my revolver. I wondered why he was asking my forgiveness. Perhaps I was dying and he didn't want me dying with feelings of guilt. Yes, that was the most probable explanation.

"I should have left you at Baker Street. I could've handled the man, as I did, but I could also have spared you the wounds."

"None of that is important. Holmes..." I hesitated, wanting to ask but I just...

"What is it, Watson?"

"Am I going to die?"

He was silent a minute before answering.

"No, doctor, but you did."

"I don't understand."

"Watson, they pronounced you dead but one final check of the pulse was enough to make them see that it wasn't that you had no pulse...it was only that you had such a weak pulse that it was almost undetectable. These doctors are imbeciles. They told me you were dead and then took it back and never even apologized. Most impolite."

"Holmes, I-"

"Let's not talk about it, Watson. I don't want to think about it anymore. It's..." he trailed off. "Let's just not talk about it."

I could tell he was saddened when I was thought dead but I hadn't expected that he would genuinely feel responsible for my injuries, which he appeared to be.

I tried to move my arm to comfort him but I winced in pain and lowered it back down on top of the thick hospital blankets. Holmes saw my discomfort.

"I'm so sorry."

"You didn't even do anything. I moved my arm-not you."

"Yes well..."

"I'm fine."

His display of sudden emotion was hard to deal with and was a trifle awkward at first. I didn't know what to say to him. I insisted that I wasn't hurt too badly and that I'd be fine within weeks. He, however, insisted that it wasn't how badly I'd been hurt but rather that fact that I had been hurt at all that was unforgiving. Again I told him not to worry about it but he persisted.

After a minute or so of silence, I could see that there was something troubling him. When I asked, much to my surprise, he said nothing but leaned over the bed to hug me. I patted his back before laughing at his strange attempt to show care. I was completely speechless.

He laughed with me.

"Thanks, Holmes but-"

"But what? Can't I hug a friend?"

"It was nice, thank you. It was just strange."

"Well, don't forget, you _were _dead-well at least presumed dead. It's not every day a friend comes back from the dead, now is it, Watson?"

I laughed at his simple explanation. "I suppose not." then I stopped laughing. "What happened to the Ripper?"

"I killed him. The only thing is... there was another murder. September 8th at 29 Hanbury Street. Miss Annie Chapman. I believe there is more than one man who is Jack the Ripper, Watson. As soon as you're all better, we're back on the case. I suspect there will be another murder. Of course, you will not come with me when I go out at night but you will accompany me to day time questionings and examinations...if you're okay to do so."

"As soon as I'm out of here, I'd be glad to help you-day or night."

Holmes smiled. "Thank you, Watson. I'm very grateful of your help. Now, you must be hungry-shall I call the nurse?"

"Please do."

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Okay, so yes, In know that the times don't exactly match up...(Watson is unconscious for two days after September 1st and then when he wakes up, Holmes tells him of a murder on the 8th...) but whatever, the story is for enjoyment only.

Okay...so I NEED AN ANSWER!

Should I go on to examine the Catherine Eddowes and Elizabeth Stride murders (the double event)...and then Mary Kelly? Or stop after the double event? Tell me what you think.

-MW


	5. Chapter 5

Hello, very sorry for taking so long. I've got a few other stories I'm working on...or just finished. One is for the BBC Sherlock series...it's such a good show...not too much like the books, but it's not too far from them. I believe they have an excellent balance (even though it's in modern times)

_MW

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On September 30th, 1888, the most gruesome murders I had ever seen were committed not forty minutes apart. I still feel chills when I think of this night and I'd rather not ever think about it again after this narrative is completed. But it haunts me. It's peculiar how the things you wish most to forget are the things you remember forever.

I was with Holmes in our sitting room one evening at about one am. Neither of us could sleep very soundly since the last murders. I was minutes away from finally drifting to sleep when Lestrade burst through our door-without knocking. He looked horribly pale.

"My dear inspector, please sit down." Said Holmes Lestrade shook his head and remained standing.

"I think you'd better come with me." He whispered slowly. I think he might have been in shock, but none of that registered at the time. Though Lestrade hadn't told us so, Holmes and I both knew there was another murder.

It was only quarter past one when we reached Berner Street-the sight of the newest woman's murder.

"Why isn't she cut up?" Holmes asked.

"Holmes! Surely you're not implying that she _should _be massacred in such a manner."

"I mean it, Watson. Our killer must have been disturbed. He must have been seen or heard and ran off. But he won't stop. No...He's not in control of this. Killing isn't his choice, it's his need. He's an addict. Or rather-_they_ are addicts. We mustn't forget that this 'jack the Ripper' is a group of now only two men. Whoever is out tonight-because they only ever send one man at a time- won't be so confident. I suspect he'll wait approximately forty-five minutes before he finds somewhere else to kill. A quiet, dark spot where he can kill unseen."

"Holmes, if I didn't know you so well, I'd believe you were the killer yourself." Lestrade said, shocked at Holmes' knowledge.

"Gentlemen!" Holmes called to two officers, "do either of you know where, if walking in that direction-over there- you would end up if you walked for forty-five to fifty minutes?"

"Well, there's not too much over there. Mitre Square is about all I can think of." One of them said.

Holmes bounced with excitement at this. He quickly grabbed me and Lestrade, motioning for us to follow him. He began running at full speed. He explained between breaths that Mitre Square was dark and nearly deserted at night. The perfect spot for a murder.

My heart pounded. I wanted to catch this madman so badly I could little think of anything else over the past few weeks. Now we had our chance. We were going to take him. I've never been one to wish pain on others but I sincerely and fully wanted nothing more than these men to die slowly, hanging by the neck until they couldn't breathe any longer.

Though Lestrade and I both ran at a full sprint all the way to Mitre Square, Holmes remained far ahead of us the entire journey.

"Stop!" he cried suddenly, but not to us-to a man leaning over something in a secluded corner of the square. I felt the immense grief take me as I realized we were too late. He was leaning over the body of a woman we would soon know as Miss Catherine Eddowes.

Holmes ran faster in pursuit of the man. There was no way either Lestrade or myself could catch him, but we ran behind him, ready to help if trouble arose. But we failed. It was too dark and we couldn't make out which way the men had gone. The world would never know which exit from the square they took, but I suppose it wouldn't matter.

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It was hours before I saw Holmes again. I admit, the entire time I was alone, I was anxious for his return, hoping that he would indeed return. He looked a bit shaken, a likely possibility. God knows the things he saw that night could have driven a sane man mad.

"I lost him, Watson."

"It's alright, Holmes. We'll get him."

"I'm losing confidence in my own abilities. These men are smart. Smarter than even I. I don't know what to do next. Lestrade-" he called to the inspector, "do you have any possible suspects? I know the man I killed was George Chapman, correct?"

"Yes. We also suspect Montague Druitt, Francis Tumblety, John Pizer and Jacob Levy."

"I've concluded that the three men responsible will be close in their relationship. Not relatives, but close enough to trust each other deeply. Find a connection between them. Anything at all. Most likely, they'll try to hide any relationship they have with each other."

"What will you do?"

"I have something to read. I've found a study called _Psychopathia Sexualis. _It was written two years ago by a German psychoanalyst, Richard Von Krafft-Ebing. It's about the mind and sexual perversion-"

"That's enough. Just do what you have to do."

"Sir-" a constable said to Lestrade- "There's something you should see on Goulston Street."

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**PLEASE READ:**

I know that George Chapman lived until 1903 but humour me-this is a fictional story and in my world, he died in 1888 by Holmes' hand. "Psychopathia Sexualis" is an actual study by Richard Von Krafft-Ebing and was published in 1886. All suspects' names are real. I did not invent them. I'm reforming history in my story-meaning that apart from the dates of the murders, this story is entirely fictional. Please remember that. This story is not a history lesson. Although names are real, the story is simply my own ideas woven into what actually happened. I'm sorry if there was any confusion. (I've been getting a few rather strange private messages lately saying things like "My friends didn't believe me when I told them Jack the Ripper was a group of three men." Again, I apologize for the confusion but Jack the Ripper was never found and was thought to be only one man, though we will never know who that man was.)


	6. Chapter 6

**SAM FRASER: **Might I begin with...WOW! I'm absolutely thrilled someone else out there studies Jack the Ripper (well, even if you don't study it, you sure know your stuff!) and I want to thank you for your fantastic review. I know that a lot of the evidence points towards Jacob Levy but in my story, I'm afraid he is NOT the killer. I am almost certain you will be happy with my choice as I have put hours of thought into "solving" the ripper cases...haha. Thanks again for the review and I'll try to find space for Abberline. I've kind of replaced him with Lestrade for the purpose of the story but I promise I'll look again and try to fit him in.

Everyone else...Thanks for the reviews thus far. I apologize for taking so long to update. My writing software crashed a few weeks ago...I just got a new program.

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It was now early November and we were just about ready to give up on the case. Of course, when I say 'we' I mean the police and I. Inspector Lestrade, Inspector Abberline (a man very involved in the cases) and I could not make head nor tail of the situation and were ready to let it go. Holmes, however did no such thing.

The night of the previous double event, September 30th, on Goulston Street gave us no clue whatsoever. When we arrived at Goulston Street, we were ushered to a wall and when the lamp was brought up against it, there were clear white letters on the brick that read "the Juives are the men that will not be blamed for nothing."

At first, upon seeing the graffiti on the brick, I figured it was merely coincidence that we should find that. Anyone could have written that. However, everyone who stood on the street that night knew who it was when we found a bloodied apron near the sight.

I remembered Holmes' quick analysis of the writings.

_"Well this man was obviously a Frenchman."_

_"Holmes, how is that obvious?" I asked. _

_"Elementary. The writing states 'Juives', not Juwes. Juives is the French word for Jews. Either way, it says Jews but my explanation makes more sense. Also in favour of my own suggestion, the French often use double negatives, as seen here. An Englishman would most likely have written 'the Jews are men who will be blamed for anything.' And the use of a definite article before the second noun also points to the man being French."_

_"So Jack the Ripper is a Frenchman?"_

_"Or someone who speaks in favour of the French. You should also know that in France, the murder of prostitutes isn't considered a crime."_

As always, I was amazed at his clever deductions. Inspector Abberline had ordered the chalking to be erased immediately and we left the scene for Baker Street around four am.

Holmes had read the entire manuscript of _Psychopathia Sexualis _in less than a day and concluded these men were potentially sick but it was highly unlikely that all of them were mentally disturbed.

Now, on November 4th, we sat in Baker Street having tea, conversing on the subject at hand-the dropping of the Ripper cases.

"I won't give up, Watson. If it takes away every hour I have left in my life, I will find him. Not you nor Lestrade can change my mind. Please do stop trying. It's rather annoying."

I simply nodded.

"Well then, I might as well give up. Where do we stand? Who have you eliminated from the suspect list?"

"Well I started out believing it was Jacob Levy but that's not possible. Lots of the evidence points to him but _too_ much of it points to him. These men are clever, Watson. Jacob Levy is known for wanting to get back at the women for giving him a disease. And it isn't a personal vendetta against prostitutes if there are-were-three men involved. It's too unlikely for all of them to be seeking revenge from the women. Therefore, and it's not John Pizer."

"So that leaves us with Montague Druitt, Francis Tumblety and George Chapman, whom you-"

"Yes, Watson. No need to say it. I remember."

Obviously he still felt bad about killing the man. I knew Holmes as a man of peace(well most of the time), and regardless of all of Chapman's wrong doings, Holmes still felt guilty for killing him. But did he feel guilty for killing him to save me? True, the man should have been given a trial despite clearly being guilty of the crime. And if we talked to him we could have gotten the names of the other men.

So Holmes saved me, but the women of London had to live in fear of being the next victim. I felt horrible.

"Watson?"

I groaned and looked at him.

"What?"

"You're angry at something." He said matter-of-factly.

I explained my train of thought, testing him to see if it was true. If he regretted saving me. I had to admit, I regretted him saving me. If I had died that night, he would have had the killers by now.

"What could ever possibly posses you to believe that? Well, I suppose you were really never known for being an accurate thinker. I uh-" he paused, thinking of how to explain himself to me. "I don't exactly like being all sentimental and compassionate like you, but you _are _my only friend. When I said I'd be lost without my Boswell-you-I wasn't fooling around."

"Oh, uh...thank you."

We both stared at the ground awkwardly.

"As I was saying, Montague Druitt and Francis Tumblety would be the two remaining suspects if only Druitt fit the profile. I find it hard to believe that he could be a suspect. He lives in Blackheath, not at all near Whitechapel and teaches at the Blackheath Boarding School. An unlikely candidate. But I won't eliminate him yet."

He turned his back to me, lit a pipe and went back to work.

VVVVVVVVVVV

It was only a few days later when Inspector Abberline knocked on our door on the morning of November 10th. Holmes and I greeted him and sat him down. He looked so excited that I thought for a mere minute that he had solved the case. He was a brilliant man, after all. But taking a closer look, t was evident that there was no triumph in his expression. He appeared to be shaking.

The doctor in me sprang to action and realized the inspector was in shock. I poured him a brandy and calmed him down whilst Holmes eagerly waited for the man to explain his reasoning of coming here.

"There's been another murder, Mr. Holmes."

Holmes features sunk into an expression of sadness that I rarely saw him wear.

"And where is Inspector Lestrade?"

"He's been ordered on leave sir. After what we saw...I don't think he'll be back for a while. I was lucky enough to be able to keep on my feet but the other two men that were with me-the inspector included-dropped to the ground. I still feel a bit faint myself."

"Where?" Holmes asked and we left the Inspector in Mrs. Hudson's care and left for the scene, despite Abberline's warnings.

Once you see something, it can't be unseen and what we saw that morning turned Holmes into a man I could no longer recognize. I sincerely hope I will never meet that twisted version of him again.

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Sorry for taking long to update. Reviews help me think so keep them coming! HAHA...kidding, kinda.

Thanks for everyone who has reviewed thus far.


	7. Chapter 7

**TO: TheHuntForJackTheRipper (formerly Sam Fraser) **Though I am flattered knowing it must have taken you ages to write those reviews, I am not impressed with your persistence to contradict me. I know very well what happened in the ripper murders. Quite obviously, Sherlock Holmes was not involved. The fact that he now is, proves this to be a work of FICTION. I know that Sir Charles Warren forced the graffiti to be wiped clean and I know that my choices probably weren't the ripper. You need not tell me the facts because I have studied the cases since I was a child. I know that you understand the cases, but you have to realize that I am using and rearranging the facts to fit my storyline. As for the Frenchman, you have to admit that the writings could have been French if you add a dot to the third vertical line in the letters of "Juwes" when they are written in handwriting. This would make much more sense than having the word spelt wrong because; face it, could someone poor in brain capacity have fooled so many police inspectors? Believe me, I've done my research and anything I change has been intentional and for the sake of the my own plotline. I appreciate you taking your time to review, but starting your reviews with "you made a mistake..." is no longer necessary. I do hope you can continue to enjoy the story as a work of fiction for the sake of enjoyment. Nothing more. Thank you again for your many reviews.

Sincerely Yours,

Myelle White

**EVERYONE ELSE: **PLEASE! Would you please, please, please remember that this is only for fun…I have deeply studied the Jack the ripper cases for a long time. I know how things happened and I know that the man I peg as the killer probably wasn't him. But PLEASE remember that this is only for fun. I mean this in the kindest of ways…if you are reviewing to correct history, please just stop. I've been getting numerous private messages from many of you telling me I am wrong to switch around events like I am…but this is fiction. That must be remembered. Thank you for reading and reviewing thus far, and please continue to review. They are appreciated greatly when they are not contradicting the story.

Warm regards,

-Myelle

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

As Holmes and I entered the room, we saw clothes scattered on the floor, skin in pieces on the bed, a woman who no longer looked human and a few sick-looking constables. Holmes removed his hat out of respect for the poor victim and I followed suit.

The poor woman showed clear signs of strangulation from what was left of her neck. Her thighs were shred to bits and folded open, the muscles clearly visible. The sheets of the small bed, pushed against the far wall, were covered in blood. One of her hands rested on her mutilated abdomen. Her breasts were cut off and from what we could see, the heart was missing completely.

It was a brutal sight, but we controlled our stomachs, as the scene was purely sickening, and continued on with our investigation.

Today was supposed to be a happy one. Holmes and I were supposed to see the parade for the Lord Mayor's show. It was a holiday in London. This woman isn't supposed to be dead. We all weren't supposed to be here. It was all wrong to me. So many thoughts ran through my head, but the most prominent was for my dead friend.

Holmes' eyes seemingly sunk into his withered, tired face. His sinewy arms were attached to his fists which were clenched with frustration. His knuckles were almost as white as some of the constables' faces.

"If this is too much for you, Holmes, surely we can look after it. Though, the help is appreciated." Said Lestrade, following my gaze and starting at Holmes.

"I'm fine. I just don't understand why he needed to do this. Look. There are clear signs that she is younger than the others. She is fresh and was beautiful. Look at her hair. It shines still, even in death. These men are unpredictable and vexing. There was no reason for them to kill this innocent woman."

He unclenched his fists and donned a pair of thick gloves to keep his hands from dirtying. As he examined her with unsteady hands and sorrowful expression, Lestrade gave us the details to the case.

"Her name is Mary Jane Kelly. According to her friends, whom we spoke to only a few hours ago, state that she was a pretty girl 'fair as a lily,' who seemed to be on good terms with most everyone she knew. She was 25 years of age, which, yes, puts her as the youngest of the victims to date. She discovered here by one Mr. Thomas Bowyer who was coming to collect the rent from her. He said he took a few minutes to recover himself then went to 37 Dorset Street for help. That, if you don't know, is a grocer's shop. I'm sure you don't need the physical description of what is left, but we've made note of each wound and position of the body parts which were…uh…removed for you to look at later, in case you forget."

"I don't forget."

Holmes picked up the woman's arm and placed it back on her abdomen gently after examining it. It was wrong for us to be crowded in this room with the woman in such a state. It felt immoral and crude but what needed to be done to solve this case must be done. By the looks of it, we were already short many members of the police force.

"Her nose is cut off, her breasts are placed beside her liver there on the table." He pointed to a table which I had purposefully avoided looking at. Of course, now I looked and was sickened instantaneously. "But her heart is missing completely."

"As was the uterus of Ms. Annie Chapman." I said.

"Thank God that these lacerations show they were scored post-mortem. I couldn't imagine if these had been given whilst she was alive."

I shuddered at the imagery.

"We are done here, Watson. Let us go and we can conference at Baker Street. Inspector Lestrade, use only the mentally strongest men for the maintenance of this job. Get this all cleared. We don't need any Scotland Yard men ending up in the asylum. Good day."

VVVVVVVVVVVVV

Back at Baker Street, Holmes and I enjoyed a cup of tea, brought to us by Mrs. Hudson, contemplated the murders.

"It is no secret that the three men whom I suspected earlier are, indeed the men who are responsible. I've had my Baker Street Irregulars keep watch of the other suspects, not the men I suspect of course, for I do not want the children to come to harm. Whilst you were downstairs conversing with Mrs. Hudson, I discussed with them. Each took on a different suspect and each came back with a full report that they were nowhere to be seen on Dorset Street. Therefore, I will follow my suspects tonight and tomorrow night to ensure there is no strange behaviour form either of them."

"Holmes that is a dangerous practice. These men are almost certainly to blame and if they will willingly kill a woman in such a manner, imagine what they would do to you-a detective-spying on them."

"You underestimate me, my dear Watson. I can disguise myself to conceal my identity and I have many skills in surveillance. I assure you I will be fine."

"Let me come with you. I can help."

"It's too dangerous. You will remain here. I can't have both of us getting killed and if it's to be anyone, it's to be me. Do not argue with me, Watson because I know what I have to do."

"Surely, Holmes, you don't mean that you are expecting to die!"

"No, Watson, but I am prepared for it."

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Later that night, Holmes emerged from his quarters with a full disguise on and stopped upon seeing me holding his revolver out to him.

"I don't think I'll need it."

"Bring it regardless. I don't want this to be my last conversation with you because you were stupid enough to forget a revolver. If you see danger arising, get out. For once in your life, don't let your curiosity get to you."

"Thank you. Your concern is noted, Watson, but I will be fine. I promise."

He took the revolver and nodded to me before slipping out the door. I knew he would be safe. He was too smart to die. So I waited all night for his return, hopeful that he would, indeed, return.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Please review…next chapter could be the last. But maybe not…sorry for taking so long to update. I've been busy with a few other ongoing stories. I will try to finish this story off quickly so there isn't anymore waiting.

Sincerely,

Myelle White


	8. Chapter 8

**SAM FRASER: **NO ONE tells my friend to shut up. "Creative Title" is trying to defend me. She's right. You review to tell someone how their story is...not to write you're bloody own! I'm trying to be patient but this is it! Get an account to talk to me privately or get the hell away from me and my stories and my friends. If you have an account I will be more than happy to have a civil conversation and to tell you about what I think of your story but it is very unfair to my other readers for them to have to see long authors notes at the beginning of every chapter because YOU DON'T HAVE A LIFE! Seriously, get an account and I'll TRY to be nice, as I was before...but enough is enough. I absolutely refuse to submit myself to your contradictions anymore. I know that I'm right and Naomi (creative title) is right as well. You need to calm down and realize, as I've previously told you, that this is fiction and not to be taken seriously. Besides, you're only 13 and half the facts you try to prove to me are wrong anyways. You're a kid. Grow up.

-Myelle White

**EVERYONE ELSE: ** do you agree with me about sam fraser? If so, tell him in a review. He seems to enjoy them. I'm truly very sorry for taking long to update but I've been thinking of what to say to that twat. Hopefully you enjoy this chapter.

Sincerely yours,

Myelle White\

VVVVVVVVVVVV

Holmes didn't come home that night. He didn't send a telegram or a message with his irregulars. I tracked down Wiggins in the morning and asked him to go in search of Holmes, but every Baker Street Irregular came to me with no information.

The entire day I spent pacing up and down the sitting room. I waited for the irregulars, but mostly for Holmes. I worried about him. He was the smartest man in London, but was stupid when it came to matters of his safety. Maybe the revolver wasn't enough.

I prayed over and over that he wasn't dead but he never showed up. For two days I waited for him to come home unscathed, but I realized how unlikely my prayers were. If Holmes hadn't come back already, he probably wasn't going to at all. But I kept on waiting until, on the third day I realized that I'd be waiting forever. I'd always cling to the small hope that he could still be out there.

It was a painful thing to think but I wondered If Holmes might be out there bleeding in some discrete alley, waiting for me to come whilst I waited for him. What a cruel friend I have been to not realize this possibility until now.

"Doctor!" I heard Mrs. Hudson scream from downstairs.

"What is it?" I called as I flew towards her.

"Doctor, there is a boy here who needs your help!"

I had hoped for a second that it would be Holmes, but when I finally arrived next to Mrs. Hudson, I saw the boy was Wiggins.

Wiggins had a deep cut on his forehead, stretching from his left ear almost to his eye on the same side. I saw his wrist was swollen as well and I instantly realized it must be sprain. I ushered him upstairs, asking Mrs. Hudson to bring us warm wet towels.

"How did this happen?"

"I followed Mr. Holmes, sir. He was very well disguised but I would know his face anywhere. He was following someone else and almost lost him a few times but he's smarter and caught up again. I was getting nervous because usually when I follow Mr. Holmes, he doesn't cringewhen a cat sneaks up on him or the man almost turns around."

"He was scared?"

"Yes, sir. I never saw anything like it. He didn't seem himself. Not at all."

"Where did Mr. Holmes go?"

"He kept on following the man, sir. When the man he was following met up with another man, he got very tense. I almost ran away, sir. My heart was pounding and eyes were stinging with tears. I was frightened, sir, but not for me. For Mr. Holmes."

Before I could enquire further, Mrs. Hudson brought in the wet towels and I began cleaning Wiggins' cut. I let him close his eyes and lay back while I bandaged his head. The poor boy had probably been up all night and if I knew him well, the night before as well. The lad was the next generation of consulting detectives, as I used to joke with Holmes. Not once had he denied it.

When I finished on his wrist, I ran downstairs to return the towels and grab him a few sweets from the cupboard. Wiggins, who had looked close to passing out before was now wide awake eating the candies.

"So why were you frightened for Holmes? Is he hurt?"

"I don't know, Doctor Watson. I saw him watching the two men then one man began filling his pockets with stones. We were near the Thames, see, so I knew what he was going to do. Then, without warning or a word to his friend, he jumped in. I gasped, sir. That's when Mr. Holmes turned and saw me. He motioned for me to get away but the man who hadn't jumped was coming towards him. He's been so good to me that I couldn't let him get hurt."

"What did you do?"

"I called out to him, but made the mistake of using his name. 'Run, Mr. Holmes' I cried but he wouldn't He turned and bashed the bad man over the head with his revolver. I ran towards them but the man pulled out his knife. That's when I got the nasty gash on my head."

He spoke as if he was slightly proud of having the cut there; as if he was proud for trying to save his mentor.

"I got up but Mr. Holmes pushed me out of the way. I fell on some rocks, and that's what hurt my wrist. I turned away and when I turned back, they had both fled. Mr. Holmes, as I saw for a quick second was in pursuit of the man."

"He didn't mean to hurt you when he pushed you. I'm sure he was trying to get you out of the way. You know that, right?"

"Of course. He's strange but he's a good man. I guess he didn't want to see a child getting killed over him. But I'm tough!" he protested.

"Are you sure you don't know what happened after that? He hasn't been home yet and I'm starting to worry that the worst has occurred."

Wiggins looked surprised at this, as if it seemed impossible for him to imagine the detective dying. Poor boy. If Holmes truly was dead, he'd be devastated. The rest of the irregulars would have no means of income to feed themselves with. Holmes was, in a way, their provider. Without him, they'd have to steal their food and I couldn't imagine what would happen if one of them was caught.

I let Wiggins rest until he was ready to go back to the street.

"You can stay the night if you wish. It's no burden on me and it might help you heal."

"I'm oaky, sir, but thank you for fixing me up."

"Just be sure to come back once a day at the least so I can change your bandages. If possible, come more often. But before you go-" I reached for some money to offer him to share with the rest of the irregulars. "Take this and use it wisely. It should be enough for you to feed yourselves for a few weeks. Try to be careful out there."

"Wow. Thank you, sir. If I see Mr. Holmes, I'll come to you right away."

"Thank you."

He nodded at me before scurrying off to find the rest of the crew.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

It was a troublesome effort to fall asleep that night. I awoke the next morning feeling more tired than when I had first fallen asleep.

I walked down from my room and into the sitting room to find Mrs. Hudson tendering to something of the settee. When I walked closer I saw it was Holmes.

"Holmes! I thought you were dead!"

"No, no. Just a bit broken, but nothing too serious. I didn't want to wake you, so Mrs. Hudson kindly offered to tend to my wounds."

"Let me see." I demanded, probably a bit too forcefully.

I examined his right arm which had a small cut in the bicep but not deep enough to damage anything. He had bruises covering most of his torso and a few on his face but other than that he was perfectly unharmed.

"Where have you been? Poor Wiggins came to me yesterday with a gash in his head and a sprained wrist."

Holmes' interest peaked at the mention of Wiggins. He seemed ashamed of something, I assumed it was pushing the boy down.

"How is he? He's not dead, right? That cut was pretty deep from what I saw. Did you let him stay here? Why isn't he here now? How did he sprain his wrist?"

"Firstly, just calm down. Wiggins is fine. I offered to let him stay with me but he refused. However, I insisted he come around every so often to have his bandages changed and for a quick check up. I gave him some money to share with the irregulars. The wrist...well, when you pushed him down he landed on some rocks and that's what did it."

"I figured as much. I didn't mean to hurt him, Watson. I swear I was only trying to protect him but the man was coming so fast at us that I had only a few seconds to move him away from me. I was surprised to see him there. I didn't suspect anything until I heard him call my name."

"He said he considered running away but he's loyal, Holmes. You'd best let him know his loyalty is appreciated. He would have died for you if you had let him."

"I know he would. But I suppose a sprained wrist is better than death. At least he'll be okay. He'll be okay, right, Watson?"

I nodded. Holmes stared at the ground for a long moment before turning back to where Mrs. Hudson had been standing. I hadn't even noticed when she took leave of us. The poor old woman: always having to put up with strange visitors and her even stranger tenant.

I had thought Holmes had fallen asleep on the sette until he spoke to me.

"What about you?"

"What do you mean?"

"My dear Watson, you cannot expect me to assume you hadn't even noticed my disappearance. The lines round your eyes and the way you lean far from your wounded leg lead me to believe you haven't had much time to rest. I can only imagine that I had something to do with that."

"I'm fine. Just glad to have you home. I had thought you were dead until Wiggins came and explained that he had seen you the previous night. Speaking of which, he mentioned that a man filled his pockets with stones and jumped into the Thames. Was that delusion?"

"I'm afraid not. Montague Druitt committed suicide that night. Their conversation didn't say much, however, I caught that Druitt felt guilty for the murders. That his own family suspected him now. Tumblety tried to convince him not to jump, but finally gave up and watched as Druitt filled his pockets with stones and threw himself into the river. I didn't try to stop him. It would have revealed me to Tumblety. Then, as you know, all of the events that led to Wiggins' arrival here took place and I chased Tumblety but eventually lost him. I walked around for a while trying to find a cue of his whereabouts but gave up and came home. The bruises are from the night previous to that one, but I'd rather not talk about it. The cut is from hitting a stone wall with great force and scraping my arm against it. It didn't do much h damage through my coat."

"Which is a blessing. You could have been killed. Did it not occur to you to use the revolver?"

"I hit him with it."

"Not the same, Holmes. What do you plan on doing next?" I began, but quickly added, "With my help and after a few days rest, of course."

He laughed and shrugged his shoulders.

"I don't know what else I can do but find Tumblety. But first, I think you're right. Sleeping is the best thing to do right now."

While Holmes drifted off to sleep, I couldn't help but contemplate how close he came to not coming home. Yes, he was smart, but I believe luck also had its place in his life.

VVVVVVVVVVVVV

Please review...next chapter will most likely be the last. Thank you all for reading and reviewing thus far.


	9. Chapter 9

**PLEASE READ: **thank you to everyone who reviewed with the exception of sam fraser (aka Eddie Kennedy). Dude, seriously? You and your "friend" have the exact same way of typing. Sometimes the letters are mixed in the exact same spots, there are random capital letters on words they aren't supposed to be on, and you "both" don't make any sense half the time because you type your words too quickly. It's obvious to anyone who pays attention that Eddie Kennedy is fictional. Please stop calling Naomi (creative title) a pig and a liar because she is a beautiful person who is smart enough to figure out how to make an account, as you embarrassingly told everyone in your review that you _didn't _know how. Really, its not rocket science. Thank you VERY much to everyone who reviewed thus far. THIS IS THE LAST CHAPTER! Thank you for staying with me throughout my story and giving me advice on where to take it. Shout out to CreativeTitle who is the sweetest person I've ever_ not_ met (haha...we're pen pals, if you were wondering). Please review my final chapter and tell me what you think of the ending. I hope that after all this time, it is satisfactory.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

The first time I had ever heard of Jack the Ripper, I was sitting in our shared rooms at Baker Street in 1888. Now, ten years later, I still cannot believe the disasters that occurred and the one that was nearly averted.

Wiggins continued to come to our flat once a day, sometimes more, to be checked upon. The poor child was occasionally too tired to leave and often made a bed of our sofa. Of course we didn't mind. In fact, we preferred to have him safe within our walls than out on the street. He had suffered through quite an ordeal.

Only a week passed since the attack before Holmes insisted to follow him again. This time, I was pursuing Tumblety as well. I wouldn't stand to be left at home for days on end waiting. Not when there was a murderer on the loose who was ready to kill you at moment's notice.

"Are you sure you want to come, Watson? I'll be fine, I assure you."

"You said the same words last time. There's nothing wrong with accepting help, Holmes. I'm coming and that's the last I want to hear of it."

He smiled lightly and it was clear he'd rather go by himself but I wasn't letting him leave again. We disguised ourselves in completely new disguises and left with our revolvers. Mrs. Hudson bid us goodnight and I couldn't help but think that this might be the last time we ever saw her. I gave her a thankful nod as she returned back to the kitchen of her rooms.

"I do hope we see her again." Holmes said almost under his breath. It was strange to hear him give praise to our landlady...if you could call it praise. "I'd thank her for all her work she's done over the years but you know how she'd get suspicious. I left her a note, Watson. In case we don't return."

"Are you expecting us to die tonight?" I asked casually. It didn't matter what the answer was. At least I would know where my friend was.

"Your calmness alarms me, Watson. Are _you_ expecting to die?"

"I'll do anything necessary to rid the world of this monster. If death is what is needed then I am prepared to die. Though, we have our revolvers so it shouldn't come to that."

"I wish I could have kept you out of all this."

"It's too late to wish for second chances. I wish none of this had ever happened and those women would still be alive but it's an impossible dream. The only thing to do is try our best to stop him."

Holmes stayed quiet most of the walk to where we knew Tumblety had residence. We cautiously peered inside an open window at the man. What he was doing remains the single most haunting act I've ever witnessed.

Along the shelves covering the walls of the house, and there were many, lay jars of clouded water. In the clearer of the jars, I could make out the shapes of organs and body parts. It was all I could do to not shoot the man right then and there.

Holmes insisted we wait should we find that, when we followed him, there were more than three men in on the murders. He admitted that he could be wrong in saying there were three and the only way to prevent future murders is to be thorough in your investigation.

Holmes and I both stared in awe as Tumblety packed the organs into two large doctor's bags. When he finished, they were zipped up and he held one in each of his hands, making way to the door.

"Come, Watson." He whispered urgently and we moved away from the front of the small house. When Tumblety stepped out of the house, the degree of composure he showed was sickening. How could a man carry such things without the guiltiest of expressions on his face? Even Holmes would not be able to pull off such an act. Despite his occasional kindness, Holmes was still cold and unemotional. Tumblety must be infinitely worse to carry out a felony such as this one.

Holmes and I waited until Tumblety was out of earshot but within our sight. I trailed a bit behind Holmes so as to not look too suspicious. I kept my eye on Tumblety and only him the entire time we trailed him. Eventually, he stopped at a little shop and I caught up with Holmes then to wait.

"Do you know what this shop is, Watson?"

"No."

"It's a butcher's. I'd like to take a moment to go in there and take all the meat he's selling to prevent it being sold to the public as an animal's meat."

"Won't we lose sight of Tumblety?"

"You'll go on and I'll find you soon enough. Don't take your eye off him for a second. I have an idea where he's going anyways."

"But-"

I wanted to protest but the man came out of the shop and began his walk down the street. I nodded to Holmes casually and began to trial him once more. I listened to Holmes and didn't look away one second. Tumblety, much to my relief, never looked back at me.

I followed him through the city for hours on foot. He never stopped to take a hansom cab or the underground. He only walked. My leg was beginning to burn and I could feel my limp coming back. I had no cane to support myself on and Tumblety knew that I had a limp. It would only take him a matter of seconds to figure out that a man with a limp who was following him would be me.

I tried my hardest not to put too much weight on my bad leg as I walked but my limp became more and me noticeable by the minute. Finally, we came to the ship yard. It was immediately obvious that he planned on leaving England, probably for America.

I had to stop him.

I felt a hand on my shoulder and started.

"Quiet, Watson. It's only me. We mustn't let him get on that ship. If he does we are lost. I bought two tickets in case we have to drag him off ourselves."

"How did you know he would come here?"

"I thought of what I would do if I had committed the murders. I'd get out of London, of course. In fact, I'd get right out of England. The most only way is by boat, therefore he would come here."

I nodded at him and we began slowly making our way closer to the criminal. The ship yard was nearly deserted this time of night save for a few workmen who were coming home. It was good and bad at the same time. Fewer people made it easy to keep sight of Tumblety but it made it easy for him to see _us. _ We remained out of earshot and far enough so he wouldn't see so much as our shadows.

"Watson?" Holmes began quietly.

"What is it?"

"I just wanted to thank you. If it happens that one of us dies here tonight, I don't want you to feel that you were unappreciated. It's been an honour to have you as both friend and colleague over the years."

"I assure you the feeling is mutual."

He smiled, a rare thing for him to do, and continued to look straight ahead. Our quarry suddenly sped up and ran aboard the passenger ship.

Holmes and I ran towards him, despite the severe burning in my leg, and followed him onto the ship. He must have seen us because when we caught up, he ducked into a corner of the ship and seemingly disappeared.

Holmes looked along the edges to see if he hung onto one of them while I checked inside the doors of the first deck. After a few minutes of searching, I heard a loud smack and then a splash. Turning around, I saw what I feared. Tumblety was peering over the edge of the ship. I didn't have to be genius to figure out that Holmes had been knocked out and thrown into the water.

Tumblety began to run towards the front of the ship.

I had the hardest decision of my life to face. I could either save my friend or catch a murderer. To this day I wonder what would happen had I chosen the other path and all my imaginings turned out the same. Life would be darker if I had I not saved Holmes.

Without hesitation, I jumped into the water.

VVVVVVVVVVV

It was hours before Holmes opened his eyes again in St. Bartholomew's hospital. I sat by his bedside the whole time, waiting for him to wake up, if he would wake up at all.

When he finally did, I remember the wave of relief that overcame me.

I explained the choice I had to make.

"You see, you were on the edge of consciousness and I would have regretted my choice all my life had I left you to die. I'm not saying I'm sorry for saving you because I'm not, but I'm sincerely sorry for letting Tumblety get away."

Holmes was silent for a long moment. I was afraid to look up at him, for he may very well burn me with his glare that stopped criminals in their tracks. I was surprised when he sighed partly in sorrow, partly in relief.

"I would have done the same thing. Now, if the nurses will allow it, do you think it would be too much trouble for you to fetch my pipe from Baker Street?"

And he was back to normal.

VVVVVVVVVVVV

It was only a few days before Holmes was back at Baker Street. I had asked him a few times to publish an account of them but eventually dropped the argument.

Ten years to the day, here I sit with my pen and paper, making an account of the ripper murders, by Holmes' suggestion.

"I believe it's time the public knew, Watson." He had said. And I knew exactly what he was talking about without questioning him. Perhaps in a year or two he'll allow me to publish the case of the Giant Rat of Sumatra, for which the world isn't yet _prepared_, as Holmes claims.

The fearsome events that took place in the fall of 1888 were something we thought the world would soon forget. We couldn't have been more wrong. The world will never forget what happened. Though many aspects of the case _have _been forgotten, the pure terror of what happened lives on.

As for the two of us, Holmes and I have had cases since then, of course, but none as extraordinary and haunting as this one. No case ever will be. I thank God for that every new day of my life.

VVVVVVVVVVVV

Please tell me how my ending was, seeing as it has been in the making since august. What's that...*counts on fingers*...seven months or so?

Thanks to all who read and reviewed thus far. Your thoughts (about my story...yes, that means you sam...) are greatly appreciated.

I hope my ending was satisfactory for you, but if it isn't, let me know that too! Thanks again and if any of you are interested in the new Sherlock BBC series, check out my stories for that fandom as well.

Sincerely Yours,

Myelle White


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